


where the fallen heart lands

by pistolgrip



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: 25 Lives, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Sort Of, also the fact that "25 lives" is not a dedicated tag is the shock of my life ngl., junk food for the soul. sort of ooc. author wants a break
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24580690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pistolgrip/pseuds/pistolgrip
Summary: It takes a while to get things right, but it wouldn't be the two of them if Six didn't complicate the whole feelings thing, anyway. Even across multiple lives.[happy 2020/06/07!]
Relationships: Siete | Seofon/Six | Seox (Granblue Fantasy)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> happy june 7, 2020!  
> is this really my third year celebrating it in a row... i don't know how to feel. thanks for being with me through these years i guess,
> 
> also sorry for the minor edits, ao3 HATED formatting this one for whatever reason

**0.**

Light bursts in the dark cavity of this universe, a pinprick spark to signal the birth of an existence outside of nothingness.

It hurts, he thinks when it bursts against the back of his eyelids. It hurts.

But there's warmth here that beckons him into the light. _Wake up_ , maybe, his heartbeat marching toward the voice. _Try again._

**1.**

It was near impossible to recruit the strongest members of each weapon proficiency in the skydom when half of them were obscure legends and the other half had no qualms about threatening Siete's life when he encroached on their territory.

He takes the attempts on his life as practice for when he recruits their final member, their melee fighter. Siete's hellbent on finding the child of Karm legend who must be a young man by now, despite the Eternals' warnings that their ragtag group might disband with his reckless choice before they're even complete.

He listens to their warnings, but it's not enough to sway him from following the inexplicable whisper that snaked around his heart to at least find who might be their most dangerous member.

The whisper leads him to the derelict Karm hamlet more than the maps he pored over. The traps leading to the entrance have rusted over time, falling apart with a weak kick from Siete. It's not a good sign to see the disrepair, but he doesn't slow his advance.

Foliage, thick and unkempt, obscures the entrance. Some of the leaves scratch at his face as he pushes through, and he can only hope that none of them are poisonous.

He expects a functioning trap to greet his tresspassing, a dagger at his feet, another threat on his life. Every source described the successor of Karm as a miracle, a monster, everything and nothing at the same time. More importantly, he was the heart of a revolution that never came for Karm, which had one day disappeared from the skies with nothing but their own bloody corpses in their wake.

Some part of Siete expects a hall of ghosts to greet his intrusion. Their demise had come from within and eaten them alive, after all. They must still be in this clearing.

Instead, Siete faces a hollow sky, a full cycle of life at its beginning and end.

Under creeping vines and drooping leaves, the structures that the Karm clan once lived in. Wildlife is so abundant from the treetops to the grass under his feet that it's hard to believe that this place was fraught with so much death.

He steps into the centre of this main clearing and finds a skeleton. This grave is unmarked, overgrown foliage reclaiming bone, but it's still been placed in a way that implies reverence.

The chirp of wildlife fades out like a forgotten dream. In a fit of irrationality, it strikes Siete that he's come here just moments too late, even though the meat has been picked clean off the bone, even as flowers take root in the skull.

Despite his better judgement, he takes a closer look. It lies with its hands positioned against its ribcage, wrists pressed together, one hand pointing up and one down. Its organic clothes are in tatters, worn down by weather and time, but certain things are more permanent: the jewellery, the beads with paint chipped off, the small insignia embedded into the skull's forehead. Beside it, a mask of bone and cold metal, one that Siete recognizes from old worn sketches of the Karm clan's operations as the clan leader's.

Weeds, snaking through the eye holes of the mask, tug in resistance as Siete picks it up. The stems snap, and he shakes them off before he can second guess if whether he's disturbing this final resting place. He's not superstitious, but what he's read about the Karm clan implies _they_ were.

"A shame we couldn't meet, heir of Karm," he says as he holds up the mask to his face, peering at the hamlet through the eye holes. The world seems so small through this lens. With this, he sees only the hamlet, a legacy that the clan sacrificed one of their most powerful children for.

Siete should leave. This is a dead end, literally and figuratively, but something compels him to sit cross-legged by the skeleton and keep it company. He feels fire like poison trail up his arms as he places the mask on the skull's face and his fingertips brush bone.

"I wonder what kind of stories you could've told us about Karm." Siete brushes flowers aside to frame the skull's masked face. "Come tell me in another life," he jokes.

**3** **.**

Song gives him a weird look as she's dipping her biscotti into Siete's coffee, ignoring the way he swats at her half-heartedly. She drips some of it onto her study notes. "Earth to Siete?"

"Do you ever feel like something's missing?" he blurts out with no prompt.

Song's weird look gets weirder. "Yeah, your attention from this study session." Underneath her teasing is her usual invitation to entertain Siete's unsettled thoughts.

He doesn't even know what to tell her.

It was nothing. _Nothing_ happened to him. With a festival downtown, the subway from his apartment to the café was packed with more people than usual. He knows how to ignore it at this point for his own survival, but today's crowd had something special for him, judging by the feeling in his core.

Someone bumping into him was been a normal occurrence with this city's public transportation, even if it was forehead-to-chin. Siete's not the tallest around, but it's already happened to him before, sober _or_ drunk. But when he looked down to apologize, he felt the branding iron equivalent pressed against his raw nervous system.

The guy that bumped into him looked just like any other student tucked under a knitted scarf, his small Erune ears twitching from the noise around him, and he glanced up at Siete with a muttered apology. He rubbed his chin and murmured, "No, it's fine," and the Erune didn't spare him a second glance as Siete just _stared_.

The speakers announced his stop, and it took all of his effort to tear his eyes away to avoid Song's wrath of being late for _another_ study session and exit out the sliding doors. People bumped into him as he stared behind him, wondering he couldn't hear anything but his own heartbeat in his ears, even as the subway peeled away with the mysterious Erune.

It was when he thought _I should've stayed to see where he was going_ that Siete realized that his reactions to this were anything but normal. Déjà vu wasn't supposed to haunt him for longer than mere seconds, and yet it nagged at him until he dropped into the seat in front of Song.

 _There are laws in this country about_ _not being a fucking freak_ _and stalking people_ _,_ he tries to reason with that strange awakened part of himself, that loss he didn't know existed before this extended déjà vu. His resistance feels weak to his own heart.

Siete raises his head to tell Song about it, who in her infinite grace has returned to looking at her notes, typing away on her laptop and taking a sip from Siete's coffee (again).

"There was a guy on the subway," Siete starts. He doesn't know how to continue.

Song's eyes fly up at that, much more interested in this than her notes. "There's a lot of guys on subways," she says, but her voice rises into the familiar lilt of interest. Siete's love life isn't built on long-term attachment, and his interest tends to fizzle out too fast. His passion is reserved for other things that Song knows well: his studies, his close circle of friends, his _swords_ (much to Nio's chagrin whenever she has to accept packages at the door while he's at class).

"Yeah, that's the thing. It was"—he raises a hand, floundering for a few seconds—"just some _guy_. He looked like a student, too. Nothing exciting."

Siete doesn't quite drop the subject, and Song raises an eyebrow. That's enough of a sign for him to continue.

"I don't know how to explain, but I feel like I'd seen him somewhere before."

"Uh, yeah? If he's a student, there's a good chance." She's teasing, but she's still interested. It's rare for Siete to lack the words to express what he's thinking; he's always been good at saying what he wants to say and talking around what he doesn't want to, and this blind spot of his is infuriating as it is unnatural to them both.

"He was familiar," he mumbles to himself. "I think I'm in love with him," he tries again. That hollow void inside him is no less hollow, but a warm song resounds in its chambers, a melody of what _could_ be there.

Before he can speak again, Song presses a cold hand to his forehead. He jumps. "If you're feeling feverish, you should go home and not infect me before exam season. Really?" Song squints. "In _love_ , Siete?"

"Like we were…" He trails off, not meeting Song's eyes. He winces. "Fated."

It's so _stupid_ coming out of his own mouth that he can't help but look back at Song, and he's not disappointed. He believed it with his whole heart when he said it, but his momentary lapse in judgement in worth it for her expression, contorting into comical disgust. She turns up her nose, eyes wide. "Who are you and what have you done with Siete? Since when do _you_ subscribe to fate?"

"I know, but…" He rubs his nose. "I really, _really_ feel like I missed something."

Song's really the best friend he could ask for. It helps that she's a romantic, and as much as she teases him, he knows he can rope her into a love story. "Don't be too sad! There's always those missed connection groups."

He must make a face, because Song bursts out into laughter, and his fiery nerves finally settle from their brush with that hollow déjà vu.

* * *

Song chalks it up to a weird, horny, hot flash of Siete's as they wrap up their study session, and Siete wants to resist the classification. It's disingenuous, grates on him the wrong way—but what choice does he have?

He laughs it off. In the cold winter air, that hollowness trails behind him like long shadows sewn to his soles, and he never finds that young man again.

**6** **.**

Growing up, no one ever understood Siete's descriptions about feeling like something was off. He's gotten _we live in a simulation and you're breaking_ _free_ jokes, and it's not quite wrong, but it's not quite right, either.

Ever since he could remember as a child, he'd been looking for _something_. Everyone is, but his search felt like something beyond his own comprehension. His own life.

Maybe that's why he became an interplanetary pilot. If what he was looking for wasn't on this planet, then maybe it was in the vast unknown, in the extreme landscape that mirrored the emptiness in his heart.

He registers the ship and their crew as a delivery service. They make a living somehow, but more than that, the nine of them become infamous for their habit of _meddling_ (or however the space police decides to paint them today, like there's something controversial about providing aid to war-torn planets).

His crew comments on his drive, the way his face lights as he docks onto a new planet. They know better than anyone he'd ever grown up with that he's searching for something, even if they don't know _what_.

* * *

"Alright, not great," Siete chirps as all of their systems blare red. He's pulling so hard on the yoke that he doesn't think he'll have fingerprints at the end of it, and the amount of effort he's expending makes him wonder if it'd be an appropriate time to make a joke about shitting his pants.

To his right, a holoscreen flashes in front of Quatre. Not a good time, then.

Sarasa ricochets around the frame with the turbulence of their failing ship, screaming about the engines or whatever as Okto ignores communications, making a valiant effort to keep everything together. Siete resists the urge to laugh. "No, yeah, we kinda got that everything's gone to shit," he mutters.

Over the cacophony, he raises his voice. "Nio, Esser, how bad is it if we crash land here?"

"Sparsely populated area." He hazards a glance at Esser. At this point, they're going almost straight down. This is the easiest time he's ever had piloting their ship, if he disregards the fact that they'll almost certainly die. "But at the speed we're going, we're going to attract attention with the impact."

"What, because we're crash landing, or because we're a clearly-marked System G294 ship that also happens to be crash landing?"

Uno gives him a warning look, but continues his SOS to the surface below. "Siete," he warns. Why, he doesn't know. It's not like he has much to do at this point except fight for his life here.

"I'm trying," he grits through his teeth as he goes back to monitoring their angle level out, decimal by decimal.

At the last possible moment in the safe zone, Esser hollers over the comm system. "Engaging emergency measures! T minus forty to crash!"

Nio redirects their power to their shields before she finishes her sentence, and darkness floods their ship.

Siete knows it would be stupid to unbuckle his seatbelt and check on Okto and Sarasa in the engine rooms, on Song still treating Funf's fever in the sick bay. The crew needs him alive, but if he doesn't have a crew to begin with, what's the point? He wants to see everyone's faces at least one more time.

In his panic-numbed mind, he thinks that this free-fall reminds him of the first time he ever flew out into space, back when it was just him and Uno. They had the entire universe before them to explore. Sure, now, they're careening to their certain death, but it's a bit like his first launch, his stomach doing somersaults, his body becoming lighter by the second.

He looks at his crew around him, knuckles white around their stations. Some are muttering small prayers, eyes closed, head up to the skies. Others look straight ahead.

Uno is looking right at Siete.

Siete grins. He's been keeping track of time. He _could_ count down, or he could talk about shitting his pants, but he doesn't want those to be the last words he says to the crew. He has _that_ much pride. "Impact in three, two—"

* * *

Is this what he was looking for?

Smoke fills his lungs, fire licks at his feet. His head is bleeding. He coughs, and that's always a good sign; he's got lungs, he's got air in them, and he's got an unconscious system keeping him alive.

He's moving. Everything hurts, except for whatever the fuck his heart is doing. It's fucked up, he thinks, that his search for something beyond himself is placated by near-death, because there's a warm weight behind him dragging him out of the wreckage of whatever this is.

He's fucking _losing_ it. The smoke reminds him of a candle's wick burnt to its end, and he thinks about study sessions with Song on his home planet—which doesn't make sense, because his home planet's _never_ looked anything like that, and Song's fashion style is too far back in the past, like she decided to open a 21st Century textbook and decided that was what she wanted.

He's hallucinating. His legs are broken. Is he concussed?

"You're more than concussed," the warm weight behind him says, and that strange yearning in Siete's heart resonates with his low timbre. "You're nearly dead."

"Where am I?" Siete's eyes can't focus. There's nothing _to_ focus on except for what he remembers as their ship. That's where the kitchen should be, but it's crumpled and unrecognizable. The hallways aren't hallways anymore. Everything is on fire.

"Crash landing."

There's no exit here. Where is this man taking him? Doors are jammed open, twitching with faulty wiring. The man drags him through a hole barely the size of their bodies, and the metal scrapes against Siete's sides.

The sunlight here is too bright. There are two suns, both high in the sky, and the air is too fresh compared to inside the crash landing. He shuts his eyes, and he hears other people cough around him. Oh, that snotty little hack is Funf. They're alright. Maybe.

He has tears in his eyes, but he can't open them. No, that wet shit on his face is blood. Oh, that's blood.

"All nine crew members of _Nirvana_ accounted for," a different voice shouts. The man holding Siete lies him supine onto a stretcher, which is a feat of extreme skill when Siete's leg is bent backwards the wrong way. Oh, fuck. That's bone.

He likes to think his restraint is amazing, that he's breathing in and out _perfectly_ fine, but that low timbre speaks behind him again. "He's hyperventilating."

"Six, give that one the anaesthetic," another gentle voice says.

Six?

Siete's eyes fly open. Forget the two suns, forget that he's not used to that amount of light. _S_ _omething_ while he exists here in this half-alive, half-dead state is begging him to look at Six. The hollowness in his chest has a voice, louder than ever, and it howls when Six fits a contraption over his mouth and nose, his fingertips brushing Siete's burnt and bloody skin.

This fire. This fire that ignites his veins, this _electricity_ —he tries to rip his mask off, because he needs to stay awake longer, he needs to know what's happening to him, what all of these memories are, what _Six_ means to him, why, when he looks up at his saviour, he sees a young man in a scarf and a heavy coat, a young man in a uniform he doesn't recognize, a skeleton in an empty grove, all blending together.

On his forehead is an insignia, and Siete knows it's seared metal to his bone.

"Six," he mutters, his energy fading as his eyes droop closed.

If Six hears anything before he falls into this eternal rest, this endless darkness, he doesn't react.

_Does it stop hurting?_

If the universe could shrug, he's sure it would've, right there.

**8.**

It's a familiar scene. A missed connection, a generic life in the 20th century. Details here don't matter, because Siete already fucked this one up when he passed Six in the airport and didn't follow him.

This time, though, he has a twelve-hour flight to ruminate on the snippets of past lives he got back with that tiny brush of skin against skin. That's a constant; Siete's drawn to Six every life, but it's not until they touch (if they do) that Siete remembers anything.

It's never anything concrete. He doesn't remember entire lives, if that's even a possibility. He sees scenes of things that don't make sense with the modern day, this current life. Six is hardly there, because from what he gathers, they keep missing each other. One or the other dies, or Siete never chases after him in earnest.

He doesn't know if Six ever remembers, but with the pain Siete's experienced in past lives of knowing and never realizing, he can hope that Six doesn't.

**9.**

To his knowledge, this is the first life where they've been friends since they were both children. It means that Siete gets memories of his past lives mixed up with his childhood memories through to adolescence, until he has what might be the fullest picture he can get of such fragmented lives.

He used to bring it up to Six, but as they grew older in this life, he realized that these memories weren't shared. Six shied away from his friendly touches, and he learnt to lay off, testing boundaries but never too far. He didn't know how to express the depth of longing that he carried for Six, someone who he barely knew even putting together all the pieces from past lives.

In this life, he takes his time learning everything he can about Six, being by his side for every up and down. If he never remembers, Siete reasons, then maybe it's enough for Six to be happy.

_Try harder._

He doesn't like listening to Fate's voice, and she must know it. He doesn't like it, but Six subscribes to powers beyond his control in _this_ life, so it's not much of a stretch to think that it's applied to him in the ones before.

Six drifts away from him in adulthood, citing the feeling he got that Siete always wanted more from him. _Not in a bad way,_ Six was quick to say. _You don't force me into anything I truly hate. But it feels like you're waiting for something from me._

Siete can feel Fate shake her head as he lets him go with no answers.

**10** **.**

Siete remembered when Six walked into the practice room and shook Siete's hand in introduction, much too formal compared to the other trainees.

Even now, he remembers that moment. He remembered every single _other_ life, too. He was lucky that along with those past life memories rushing back, he was training to be an idol, so it wasn't hard to get his shock under control and grin at him.

It was a burden to remember, because he always got false hope when Six reacted to his first touch. A slideshow of every time they've passed each other in past lives flashed in Siete's mind, and it was all the same; a shock, a step back, Six tilting his head before he brushed the sensation off to static electricity, to summer weather, to his imagination.

In this life, too, Six flinched back from their handshake, but there were too many distracted trainees to pay attention to how the newly-scouted boy reacted to their unofficial leader, and Siete bit back a sigh and prepared himself for another lifetime of Six never remembering.

* * *

He doesn't want to say it, but they're getting close in this lifetime. They touch each other more often than not, both because they're close friends and colleagues, and also because physical fanservice is always a crowd-pleaser.

Five years together as SIREN pass them by, and Six acts different than what Siete knows; it's consistent in this life, but inconsistent with past lives, as if he was reborn with more curiosity this time. This is different from when they grew up together, and this is different from the time they went to the same university. They're close, here. Best friends if Six was feeling generous, and Siete thinks, maybe, if he remembers, they could have _one_ life together.

But how is he supposed to jog Six's memory? By dying in his arms?

_You're learning._

_Absolutely not_ , he thinks as he grits his teeth and wipes the sweat from his brow. _I'm not dying again._

Fate's silence is telling. That disembodied voice only comes to him when he's about to pass away or at least need severe medical assistance, if her laughter as he collapsed backstage on their first world tour was any indication.

He needs to take it easy, but he's still got pride. His body isn't reacting the way it wants with how distracted he is by figuring Six out in this life, and he loops their new song to the beginning again, hammering the choreo into every line of muscle.

He watches his mistakes, every millimetre where he's off-beat from his group members that aren't here, and ignores how he feels faint. Because if he can do that, he can ignore how Six's voice is in the back of his mind, his scrutinizing expression during their down times where Siete has no idea what he's thinking.

In fact, he can practically hear Six's voice now, seemingly flat and unaffected, but Siete's learnt to pull at the thread of concern underneath until everything frays.

Should he be trying harder to get Six to remember? Has he ever tried to get Six to remember in any of his past lives? Is _that_ it?

"Siete."

Six's real, bodied voice breaks him out of his reverie. It's not until he turns around to face him that he realizes how haggard he looks, all of his unsightly angles reflected in the mirrors with the lights dimmed.

Six holds out a water bottle. Under the face mask, he looks concerned. "It's late," he says.

Should Siete try to jog his memory? How is he supposed to do this?

Six must interpret his blank silence as resistance, because his eyebrows furrow and he steps inside the practice room, closing the door behind him. He doesn't turn the lights on, either. "If our leader collapses before the comeback from exhaustion, we will have no choice but to publicly shame you."

Siete relaxes a bit, but still, his heart thunders. If there's one thing he learnt, it's that Six cares. He always has and always will care about the ones he loves to the point of self-destruction, no matter how much he denies it. Here, in this life, the fans' affection toward Six bewilders him—but he fights for them as hard as he fights for the rest of SIREN, for their sister groups in this company.

For Siete, he realizes. His support might not be as vocal as Gran's or Quatre's, but it's with Six that he's trained the longest. He might be better at the backhanded comments and hovering over Siete's physical and mental health than their manager is.

With a dramatic huff, Siete throws his hands up and flops down onto the ground. The cold practice room floor makes all of his exhaustion catch up to him in one single burst, and he lets out a groan as he lies flat on the ground.

Six crouches next to him and holds out a water bottle. Their fingertips touch.

Siete should be used to the jolt of electricity that he's felt every time they make contact, this same burning desire to take Six into his arms and hold him close. Even outside this life, it's always the first sign of progress.

Siete's still the first to realize, even if Six is the one instigating touch. "Hey, Six."

"Mm."

"Remember how long we were just training? Way before we debuted, when it was us two left?"

"How am I supposed to forget?" He says it with a sigh, but he settles in beside Siete, watching him closely.

Siete flops around on the floor before settling like he's about to make snow angels. Six moves out of his space. "No, I know. But when I first saw you walk in, it felt like I was born to meet you, y'know?"

It's vague, and it's cheesy, and it sounds like he's trying to hit on Six—which, reincarnation thing aside, he would. There's no way he wouldn't go after Six even if Fate's voice was absent. But those words are the greatest risk he's taken in acknowledging that there's something supernatural going on between the ways they meet, even if Six only knows the current life and nothing else.

(Wait, no, this is a risk in and of itself, because even if Six _does_ remember, they're public figures, for god's sake. They did their first world tour last year. Siete learnt _English_ for it. _Millions of fans_ sounds like he's bragging, but that's really what they _have_ —)

Six puts a hand on his forehead. "Do you have a fever?" he asks, with complete sincerity. It makes Siete laugh. It reminds him of Song in a café in a more unassuming life, one where he never found Six again. He must interpret the warmth of their connection as his fever. "Never mind, you've said worse to me."

Does Siete _really_ want to destroy the irreplaceable friendship between him and his group member at their prime, dominating the music industry? "Are you happy?" Siete decides to ask, ignoring Six's concerns.

He raises a hand up to Six's, still checking his temperature against his forehead. He makes their eye contact deliberate as he tangles their fingers.

Physical contact is common for them. They're _idols_. It's part of the marketing, the weird little charm. Siete's role is to dole it out to the other three in SIREN, and Six's role is to reject it in a cute way, even if he doesn't hate it. Sometimes, on camera, he'll accept it. Sometimes, Siete does it off-camera as a sincere gesture of comfort, familiarity, something the others can accept as a placating warmth.

Here, no one is watching but the two of them. They don't have to do this when neither of them are suffering or stressed. They don't have to do this without cameras. They don't, but Siete wants to. No, he _needs_ to. He's starting to get annoyed with Fate's laughter.

He squeezes Six's hand, and Six squeezes back before he looks down at his hand like it betrayed him. He pulls back like he's been burnt. Siete can't bite back the private smile that springs to his lips, a laugh without sound. The hollow, the persistent déjà vu, the _whatever_ in his heart sings.

"I—Drink water," Six sputters, scrambling to stand up. His cheeks turn red as he wipes his palms on his sweatpants. "And sleep."

"Right here?"

"In the dorm," he grits out, not looking at him. (Doesn't matter. Siete can turn his head to any wall and meet his gaze in the mirrors, but for now, he'll give Six the privacy.)

The door shuts with a click behind him, and Siete wonders what it is in his heart that makes him think this is the first life where Siete thinks he could fall in love with Six and have him reciprocate.

**12** **.**

_Warmer._

_Yeah? Really?_

Fuck it.

Alexander opens his eyes to the assassin standing over him, knife's point poised over Alexander's heart. The door to his chambers are open. Blood stains the opulent walls, a heart-shaped splatter over the portrait of his great-whatever. Grandfather, maybe.

All he can hope for is that the kitchen staff made it out alive fine, but for Alexander himself? It's not a great way to go, but he gets it. Nothing quite like bringing a crown prince's head home for glory and honour.

"Can I at least see the face of my killer?" Alexander asks, unconcerned. The assassin's garb isn't familiar to him. Huh. He'd think the threat would come from _inside_ the castle walls with how frazzled the kingdom is about an illegitimate child as the heir to the throne.

His sword's too far away. It's fine, he's got a sharp tongue, and he'll make a solid attempt at talking to this guy. It might honest to god work. A tremor runs across the assassin's arms, vibrating through the dagger, rattling against Alexander's ribcage. "Weird time to be nervous when you've killed basically everyone in the palace."

"Quiet," his assailant hisses, and Alexander tilts his head.

"That's a familiar voice." He sighs, because at least his people are predictable. He raises a hand to the assassin's mask, metal fused to bone, and meets no resistance, no further threat of death past the dagger hovering over his heart.

It takes all of his self-control not to drop the mask on the ground when his fingertips brush the scarred skin underneath it—oh, _alright_ , that's what this is about. He lets out a small wheeze as their past lives flood him until the room spins, the only anchor their contact. They've accumulated enough lives to get a small headache every time it happens, and memories of _those_ headaches come back, too. The recollection gets faster every time.

"Come on, Xing," he whispers. The point of the dagger breaks through his sleep clothes as Xing jerks out of shock, but it doesn't break skin. They've started the countdown in this life; Alexander's skin soaks the poison dripping off his dagger. "This life's a dead end—literally, I'm _dying_ again—but I'll meet you in the next one?"

"What—"

Alexander moves his hand to the back of his neck to tug him down. "Sorry," he mumbles against Xing's lips before he smashes them together. The angle's awkward, it's all kind of fucked up if he really stops to think about how he's French kissing the man about to assassinate him because they were _almost_ sort-of lovers in past lives, but the whole goddamn thing is fucked up.

Xing doesn't push him away, nor does he complete the assassination. Alexander doesn't know if Xing remembers the way he does, even now. Both of their mouths are too preoccupied for him to say _hey, I have really weird dreams about hopelessly pining for you in every life before this one, because we've lived multiple lives, by the way_.

He's thinking all of this while kissing Xing, who _still_ hasn't moved away. The sparks, that warmth builds into a fire as he moves his other hand to trace down Xing's arm, feeling his muscles tremble. His fingers wrap around the skin of Xing's wrist, and both of them gasp with the direct connection.

"Sorry if you remember anything this time around," he apologizes, because it seems like Xing might this time, with the way he's trembling and searching Alexander's eyes for any sort of answers. He doesn't have any. He usually doesn't, and he doesn't like that _that's_ a constant. "I take responsibility for our pain in this life." He moves his hand on top of Xing's, curled around the dagger, and then pushes it down into his own chest with all his might.

Jesus, dying violently never gets easier.

"Bring my sexy li'l head back to Karm and make a good life, though."

That's the first time they've kissed outside the context of fanservice, he thinks. It's a bit more sincere. They're getting closer.

**14** **.**

The subway is packed, and Siete has to wiggle his way each stop to the doors, anticipating a flurry of people at his transfer station. It's nothing out of the ordinary, and he even shoots a message to Song that the subway is behind schedule. He's pulling up to his stop when a stranger jostles into him, hard enough to make his teeth clack up in his jaw and set it on fire. It's no big deal, even if he does rub at his jaw. He looks down to apologize, because he heard the _thunk_ of the stranger's forehead, and he makes a note to tell Song and whichever friends she's got waiting at the café about the dude with the hollow skull, and he _nearly_ laughs.

The double doors chime, and the Erune in front of him mutters a small apology before he rushes past Siete, their hands brushing. By the time Siete has the wits about him to say _Six, wait_ , he's already gone.

Everything's coming back with this little contact—nothing concrete, but enough to know that for a brief moment, the hollowness in his heart was filled before it was taken away. He's already had a life at this campus. He's always wondered why it felt so familiar, and with the weight of thirteen past lives crashing into him, he wants to collapse.

He might lose Six in this one, too. He breathes out a laugh as the subway pulls out from the transfer station, and even without the chilly autumn air, his fingers are numb without the Six's flash fire warmth.

It's a blessing that he has to walk the extra three blocks to the café. It gives him time to process Six slipping between his fingertips again in what is quite possibly the most benign of their lives. He tries very, _very_ hard not to curse Fate, because she's always listening.

He really, _really_ hopes that him tempting Fate by asking her if he had to die in every life wasn't realized, because his heart stops a _second_ time that day when he walks into the café and settles into his usual seat in front of Song, diagonal from Silva. The empty seat next to him already has an abandoned scarf, and he _just_ saw it, he really did—

"Oh, Siete! This is Six," Song says, gesturing to the young man wiping his palms on his jeans, moving his scarf to sit in the last empty seat. (Siete already knows. He already knows, because as Six slides into the seat beside him, their ankles brush, and by the time his ears stop ringing, Siete is already relishing in the warmth of their physical contact once more.) "Small world! We were friends all the way back in elementary school before he moved away, and now we're here again, can you believe it?"

"Really is a small world," Siete says. He doesn't care about how transparent he is in this life when he turns away from Song to give Six his brightest smile, laughing at the way Six's lips tighten into a thin line—although it doesn't hide the way his cheeks turn red.

**17** **.**

"Allergies? Really?"

That's Quatre's voice. Alright, he's fine. He's okay enough to open his eyes. They shouldn't be in any danger if Quatre's annoyed and not hollering for dear life.

Siete blinks back into existence, and everything _hurts_. He'd be surprised if something didn't hurt, because he feels the cold examination bed of _Nirvana_ underneath him, the chill that always seems to come with med bays. He groans and tilts his head, enough to see Funf standing tall behind Quatre, nodding fast.

Ah, it's all coming back to him. With their rations closer to empty after the last revolution effort, they made an emergency stop over at a nearby planet. They traded favours with the locals, and at some point, Siete slipped on his ass and fell down a ravine. Six, one of the planet's training ambassadors for System G294 affairs, broke his stoic demeanour in an attempt to catch him.

It didn't work, judging by how bruised Siete's ass feels.

"Yes, allergies." Six's voice washes over him, more refreshing than any balm he could get for his stupid huge bruised ass. "Injuries from stupidity aside, he didn't react well to the flora on this planet."

"Fuckin'—falls off a cliff and the worst thing he gets is sneezing a few times," Quatre grumbles. "Yeah, we were just gonna spend a day to get our energy back up, but it looks like it's necessary now."

"He'll need someone watching him to make sure his reaction doesn't get worse, but as far as I'm concerned, this shouldn't escalate."

"How 'bout you stay and keep me company, doc?" Siete decides this is an amazing time to alert the others that he's awake. He winks at Six, but it's more of a necessity, because that eye is swollen and it hurts to keep it open. "The rest can finish up whatever they need to trade here, and _you_ can take care of _me_."

Six's face is half hidden with a mask, but the full force of his disgust shows through. It warms Siete's heart. He wants to see more of it.

"Not it," Quatre rushes to say before he's scrambling out of the sick bay.

"Rude."

"You know," Funf starts in her _I'm-twelve-years-old-and-innocent_ voice, "this ship doesn't have a medic and Siete's kinda high maintenance. You could stay."

"I can see that." Six sighs, resigned to his fate, and he pulls up a chair beside Siete's bed. He starts running tests on Siete while Funf watches, an ever-diligent student, and his touches linger for much too long to be entirely professional.

For him to not remember _something_.

"I'll consider," he says to break the silence that's fallen on them, and with how he searches Siete's eyes for an explanation, both of them know that he's already done enough thinking for several lifetimes.

**21** **.**

The sound of cameras clicking for news sites reminds Siete of flies swarming a carcass.

At the podium, Six's voice is steady and confident, nothing like the stammering mess he was at their debut. Siete figures that's the unfortunate reality of being forced into speak about something _this_ personal.

The other members of SIREN stand behind Six, not impassive, but barely contained with anger. Siete knows their PR managers are off to the side, _begging_ the other three to stay quiet, but if they all look furious in these press releases, then _good_. They've heard Six practice this address for hours straight, and Siete thinks he can redirect some of his energy to controlling his emotions (although he leaves his silent fury on display).

Six's words about what SIREN, what _Siete_ means to him, are full of infinite kindness that Siete's known him to possess for several lives now. Those words are lost on everyone here. Reporters only want to pick at new scars, vulnerable flesh; for Six, what he and Siete have is a point of pride more than a sign of weakness.

Dating scandals are never fun, especially when they're true. Six tried to leave for the group's sake, and they protested before he even finished his sentence. There wouldn't be a point to creating music, to singing and dancing and _sharing_ if all four of them weren't present.

The company's already abandoned them. This is their press conference to announce independence while Six doubles down on his and Siete's relationship.

This life pains them in a way they don't expect, growing ever closer but still not _there_. But Six was the one that ultimately made the decision to do this press conference, and Siete hasn't fallen in love with him and that same fire in his eyes twenty-one times for nothing.

At the end of the address, SIREN walks up and stands next to Six. Six holds Siete's hand and leans into the microphone. "No questions."

The hall explodes with noise, cameras clicking and reporters clamouring for their voices to be heard. Security escorts them to their van, their manager already waiting in the driver's seat, having left the company with them. She makes half-hearted complaints as she honks the horn and peels out of the parking lot.

On the highway, all four of them release the breath they've been holding, slumping down into peals of laughter. Six rests against his side, Siete throws a shoulder around him, and the warmth they share is enough to forget what the rest of the world thinks.

**22.**

Maybe it's better that Six doesn't remember.

He's never confirmed whether Six ever remembers in the lives they spend together, even if it always finds an early end. He's content to love Six and earn his trust and love, over and over again.

Besides, he doesn't want to know if Six remembers all of the times Siete died before they could start their story properly. Siete lives most of his lives now with the knowledge from the beginning that he's missing Six by his side. If he can have it so that Six can be happy without the knowledge of them, side by side, then he'll take it.

**23** **.**

Alexander prepares himself to see the blood splatters on the wall of the corridor outside his chamber, but the night is still dark. He was worried for a moment, because he's come to love this kingdom, the people that work for him and the people who he works for, and even if it's for the fated love of his life, he doesn't want to see those he cares for die at an indiscriminate, unremembering hand.

It's taking less to jog the old memories that were his, but not his of _this_ life. Still no specific images, but this is a new record; his fragmented soul awakens at the the sound of his window sliding open with the night air, the scent of fresh rainfall trailing behind.

"Hi, Xing." He yawns, shifting to sit up in bed. Six's real name always rolls so strangely off his tongue. Some lives, it's Six; some lives it's an alias and other times it isn't. Here, he's Xing. He knows that well. "I was hoping you'd be a prince this life so we could meet at fancy banquets and court each other, and I'd see you all dressed up, but I guess the Karm clan always comes back one way or another, right?"

To punctuate the end of his words is Xing's dagger, cold like the winter crescent moon against his throat. "How do you—"

"We get redos of some lives." Alexander cuts him off. "This is one of them. I know you're here to bring my head back. But consider," he says, bringing his hand up to take off the mask he knows is sitting on Xing's face, "that I'm in love with you, and I have been for a very long time."

He cups Xing's face with a hand, sighing with contentment at the warmth against his palm. Xing's eyes flicker and widen. This is new. He didn't step away this time. He strokes the pad of his thumb against Xing's cheek, against all of the scarred skin. Xing's eyes dart around the room, but he doesn't back up from Alexander, his mouth falling open in a silent gasp.

"You know, in almost two dozen attempts, I think that's the first time I've _ever_ seen you remember this clearly, right in front of my face."

The dagger clatters onto the ground and Xing's knees give out underneath him, right into Alexander's arms. It feels like he's running a fever. "Siete," he breathes out, hoarse. It's not the right name for this life, but it's the right name in most of them, and that's enough.

The door opens, and his guards are familiar faces. Gran, clad in armour, running in with Quatre behind him at the sound—as far as Alexander knows, they've never remembered anything, even though he sees them, time and time again. It's fine. "It's fine," Siete says.

"Did—he try to kill you?" Quatre's confusion is palpable, and Alexander laughs.

"Yeah. A bit of a long story, though," he murmurs, one of his hands instinctively coming back up to rest on Six's back.

**24** **.**

_You know, we don't grow old together in any of these._

Silence.

_There's the unrequited love, the missed connections. That_ _ship_ _crash_ _, seriously, what was up with that one?_ _Assassinations. Bad luck. Sickness._

Silence.

_We've even broken up a few times, haven't we? Because he can't always handle the information of us being together._ _And s_ _ometimes_ _, our lives are fine, but_ _he just doesn't remember._ _And he can tell there's something up with me that makes it hard for him to stay with me._

Silence.

_But you know,_ _whatever. I can't complain about spending this much time with someone I love, even if we keep fucking it up one way or another. Bring it, sure. Why not. Fuck it._

His heart beats, and he prepares for another life.


	2. Chapter 2

**25.**

From birth, Siete felt an ambition from beyond him to _keep moving, keep moving_ , twisting in his chest until it tangled in his ribs. It was in those knots that he could discern the shape of something, or the shape of _nothing_ , and he interprets it as a call to amass power to fill what he could. Regardless of with which cards he was dealt when he was born, he'd go and finish them himself.

It wasn't easy to rally the strongest fighters of the skies, but Siete was nothing but dedicated. When he first met Uno, he figured that the hollowness in his chest was loneliness, a lack of people in his life to understand him on a personal level. _Friendship_ wasn't in the plan for the Eternals, but when different flavours of social outcast live together long enough, it ends up happening even if they resist it.

The Eternals are still a good enough distraction that he forgot about that gnarled mess in his chest, that space growing smaller and smaller with each year they spent together, but there was always _one_ reminder about it.

Six was their last recruit, and Siete sought him personally.

He and Uno split the recruitment as evenly as they could when Siete liked seeking people himself, but he was drawn to the heart of the Karm massacre legends, the monstrous boy that should be a young man by now. Siete found him, and the air between them was electric as they fought and sparred and left their histories unsaid. Siete kept coming back, and Six didn't push him away; while it was nothing short of a miracle that even given his disposition, Six agreed to join the Eternals, a part of Siete felt like it was aligning.

(What did it feel like? A hollow, a tangled mess? Flower stems snapping, forest fires, déjà vu. No attempt to describe it seems satisfactory.)

He chalked it up to collecting all of the Eternals, showing them their new base, and giving them uniforms.

More than the rest, Siete expected Six to leave at every turn—when the Revenant Weapons nearly tore them apart, when his past returned to him as a living, breathing vehicle of broken revenge—but here with the Eternals, Six stayed.

(He'd forgotten about that feelings he could never describe. _Hearts beat every day_ , he chastises himself when, sometimes, he wonders why it is that Six is always so warm to the touch.)

* * *

Rather than puzzle pieces, the Eternals were all like different mugs of shapes and sizes and still on the same cupboard. Or like decorative souvenir spoons that had pictures of places on them that they could hang up on the wall, or—

"Siete." Six punctuates his name with a sigh. It rises into the cold air, echoes like their footsteps against the cobblestone. "I understand you're drunk, but please stop speaking."

"No," Siete mumbles. The side of Six's neck is warm. There's an inch where his skin shows between the high collar of the uniform and the underside of his mask. Despite all of his teasing, he doesn't really touch Six that often, at least not skin-to-skin. It's a bit addicting. "I love you."

Six freezes. It felt right to say, but also wrong. Kind of like how everything is tilting to the side for him right now—oh, no, Siete's just falling down. Six holds him tighter, and he's back upright. Sort of.

"I love the Eternals." It's _really_ addicting to speak against the skin of Six's neck. It feels like he's done it dozens of times before, like he knows where to find Six's pulse, where he's sensitive. He feels like he can explore the sky beyond the stars as long as he's this close to Six. "We're all weird, but we make it work."

When did Six start walking? Or dragging Siete around, whatever, same thing.

"Nio would take any spoon as long as we can fill up glasses of water and she can make a song by banging them. And Quatre would be like one of those huge wooden spoons. Still decorative, but also large enough to grab and beat the shit out of me with. You get to be… You get to be, like, the little spoon."

Six's sigh is very familiar. It feels nicer when Siete's this close to him, though. The skin of his neck is getting warm. "I am declining every offer to 'go out' with you from this point onward."

"Liar. You love being my babysitter."

"I don't love anything." The way he says it is weird, like he's about to throw up trying to hold something back. "At least, nothing that's related to you." Ah, there's the caveat! Siete expects it, though. He laughs. Six is warm.

Six is warm, and he's comfortable, and maybe that's the one thing that's sort of gone wrong through the entire history of the Eternals. Siete's supposed to be their leader, and he's gone and caught feelings. Who is he? Nothing he does is long term. It doesn't even make sense.

But here Six is, in all of his awkward and _horrifyingly_ sincere glory. He's so sincere it's hard for Siete, who's done nothing but build up walls around himself since the day he was born, to stay away. He's curious. He wants to know. The other's voices resound off the hollowness in his chest, but Six's sits there, occupying the space, filling it up like warm water in a tub, and—

"You are _not_ bathing when you get back. I will not watching over you. Without supervision, you will drown." Six huffs.

"You can watch me and my hot bod if you want," Siete teases. Six elbows his gut, but shifts to hold him tighter and keep dragging him around.

* * *

So, there's that, he thinks with a hangover and a note beside his bed, some note Six left him about extra food and missions and whatever. Affection. The big ol' L-word.

Siete knows there's different kinds of love. He knows enough to recognize that what he feels for Six is romantic love, if he was being kind enough to himself to admit it. But at the same time, he knows that it's dangerous to try and get close to Six because of some—whatever, some weird deficiency he himself was born with, the tangles, the ribcage, the song. The hollowness. The search.

He refuses to call on Fate. He refuses, because he's always taken control of whatever he wanted. And that includes dragging his ass to do reconnaissance with a pounding hangover and Song's understanding presence.

"Is something bothering you?" Song asks with a mouth full of biscotti. She looks ridiculous with her disguise, all large sunglasses and huge sun hat, like she's increased every single accessory she's decided to wear for today's information gathering by three sizes. It's a bit silly, but it works, and there's no harm in letting her dress up sometimes on the job. "You can tell us anything, y'know? Stop being so secretive, you weird old man."

" _Old?_ " He clutches his chest. The ache, the hollow, whatever. It's familiar to spend time with a good friend like this, can it shut up? "I'll have you know, I'm a _very_ sexy thirty-two."

"Oh, _yeah_ , you've got a lot of competition in that alley." Song smiles up at him, and with sarcasm dripping from each syllable, she drawls, "Not many other sexy thirty-two year old men that hate sharing their personal struggles, I'm sure."

"Okay, I get it. But no, I've just been thinking."

"Good sign. Going senile _not_ in your near future."

She puts her chin in her hands, and the silver sing on her left ring finger glitters in the bright afternoon sun.

* * *

When everything falls into place, Siete thought he'd be in on the big, life-changing revelation and what it was, but instead he just gets a bunch of weird panic.

He's scheduled a standard meeting with Six, a quick drop-in after one of his longer-term missions to see if the the slums under his guidance need more time, more resources. These meetings are less formal than ever before, and no matter who Siete's with, they end up shooting the shit before they part.

It's no exception with Six, but it looks different between them—Siete acts, Six reacts, and both of them fight for the last word.

He's finishing up a letter, glancing at the candle burning on his table. It's getting dim, the wick almost to its end and the wax dripping onto his table. He should replace it before Six arrives, but when he stretches his arms over his head, he hears footsteps approach his door. Logic dictates it's Six, but Siete can count on one hand how many times he's heard his footsteps the way they are now: frantic, uncoordinated, _fast_.

By the time the door flies open, his brain is in _leader_ mode, preparing every possible outcome of Six's mission in his mind, running simulations of what could lead Six to pursue this meeting with such panic. Six looks as panicked as his footsteps implied, his half-mask concealing nothing.

Siete forgets how to breathe when Six shuts the door behind him and crosses the room in long strides. His eyes see nothing but Siete.

"I've—I've made you wait." Six is out of breath, still in his clothes from the undercover mission. His hands fly to Siete's shoulders before he thinks better of it and backs away. He takes off the other half of his mask so his eyes scan Siete's face.

Over the years, Siete's gotten used to his rare emotional outbursts, mostly of panic, but they've never been directed at him like this with no danger prominent. Out of instinct, he smiles and puts a hand on Six's arm that he hopes is comforting. "Whoa, okay, slow down. What's wrong?"

"You don't have to pretend," Six rushes to say, his face bright red with something Siete _would_ call embarrassment on any other day. Right now, he's too determined. His eye contact doesn't waver. "Not like you always do. I remembered."

"I can see that," Siete says, testing the weight of each word in his mouth. His heart is beating, and he can't imagine _why_ , and he's never liked not having answers. "You showed up here on time. It's not like you to forget meetings, anyway."

"Not that, the—" He chokes. Holds his breath.

As he exhales, his face falls. The energy drains so fast from his body that Siete extends his arms before he can think anything of it, catching him when he collapses. With his bare forehead tucked under Siete's chin, he can feel how warm he is.

Siete's warm just from the simple contact. Has he really had _that_ long of a dry spell? It's enough that Six of the Eternals, a man known for being stingy with his physical affection, hugs him and he feels like he's on fire?

His heart beats in his chest, and a familiar ache begins; the reminder that he was born searching for something to fill some strange chamber in his heart. (And then, beside that: an unfamiliar rush that with Six, it's filling to its brim, lapping at the edges.)

"Okay, you're running a fever," he says, ignoring everything that _feels_ like a revelation to pat Six on the back. "That's why you're so incoherent."

Six laughs. It's not his usual proud laugh, the low and brief chuckles that are less rare as his time with the Eternals goes on. It's a hoarse breath, like a deflating balloon, repeated over and over again. "Of course," Six mutters. It must be to himself. "Of course you would say that."

"Meeting postponed," Siete decides. "Not as important as you getting some bed rest. C'mon—"

"Let me rest here."

He hopes Six can't feel how the request speeds up his pulse until he feels like he's bursting from the inside out with the pressure. "You sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life." He sounds small. Broken, somehow. Siete gets the nagging feeling that he's not sick, that there's something going on—stress is a good guess, because even Six is capable of keeping things like that to himself if he thinks it'll burden the team. But Siete won't complain when Six, for once in his life, is asking him if he can _rest_.

They shuffle to Siete's bed, and Siete sits on the edge as Six looks up at him with hollow eyes. It's the last thing he sees as the candle in his room burns to its end, the flame dimming until they're in the darkness, smoke filling the space where the light once was and spreading into the room.

Still, Siete waits. He gets the sense that Six wants to say something.

In the end, Six doesn't say anything. He puts a hand over Siete's, and in the safety of ambiguous darkness, he lifts their hands to his lips and kisses Siete's knuckles before he falls asleep.

* * *

Six won't let go of his hand, and Siete can't find it in himself to untangle their fingers. He lets Six have the bed and he settles to sleep at an awkward angle against the side of the bed, his head tilting backward over the edge.

The floor isn't comfortable, but he drifts off almost immediately as he settles. His dreams are formless, but the sensations aren't; a cold autumn day, plush sheets warm with blood, Six's smile on a screen bigger than the Grandcypher.

A skeleton in an overgrown clearing, a mask to cover metal seared into bone.

* * *

They debrief in the morning. They're already in the same room, and both of them switch to business mode for long enough to get work done. Siete ignores that the air between them is charged with something Six won't admit to, something Siete knows is there but has no words for.

More than anything, he feels the place where Six's lips pressed against his knuckles as if they were burning, blistering. Scarring. He wonders why the only thing he remembered that one night where Six dragged him back from the pub after a night of celebration was the way his own lips felt against the side of Six's neck as he blathered on about anything and everything.

It's not unnatural for the Eternals to keep their physical distance from each other, even if they've become more comfortable over the years. Aside from a few, the natural inclination to reach out, touch, connect with loved ones is something they have to relearn.

For Six, Siete was always careful with the way he threw his arm around his shoulders, casual but always watching for his comfort. He stopped watching after a while, mostly because he knew Six's tells without the help of his eyes. There was always something else—his voice, the tense of his shoulders—all of which faded over time.

Faded, but not lost; he knows them all intimately when he throws an arm over Six's shoulder while he's in the kitchen washing dishes. A mug slips from Six's hand, but Siete darts out to catch it. Six is skittish in a way he hasn't been in years.

"Should we talk about why you're freaking out?" Siete asks under the running water. The others are already wandering around the base, and like most conversations Six has, he extends the offer for it to be private.

Six looks at him out of the corner of his eye. It gives Siete the impression that privacy would be for _his_ sake, not Six's own. "I have to try," he mutters. It's to himself. No—it almost feels like something _outside_ himself. "Come to my room before the day ends."

With that, he turns the tap off and leaves.

Siete doesn't waste any time after he eats and cleans up, dropping by the med bay to grab a thermometer just to check Six's temperature just in case.

* * *

"Close the door behind you." Six glares at him. He's _really_ high-strung, and even if he weren't, Siete can't find the words to tease him back. The building tension is palpable, something that must've been stewing before reaching its limit with whatever happened to Six on the mission. He didn't bring any of it up in confidentiality mere hours ago, and Siete's mind supplies simulations of failings on his mission once more.

Siete's own heart is vibrating in his chest, resonating with something he couldn't see, shaking the brambles free from bone. It's a _s_ _omething_ that's followed him since he was born.

He locks the door and turns around to Six, who's removing his mask, his cape, his gloves—"Whoa, am I getting a show?" Good, Siete's found his words again, because he's about to lose them again.

Six frowns up at him as he stands and closes the distance between them with long, easy strides. He looks up at Siete and then says, "If this works, then perhaps you will."

He doesn't even get the chance to question how suggestive his words are for no reason before Six cups his face in his hands. His hands burn against Siete's skin, branding his fingerprints against where his dimples are then he smiles. How have they gone this long without their bare skin touching? Has it always felt like this, like his nerves explode and crackle and tingle up his spine?

Six is looking at him as he holds his face, and Siete wants to say something like, _Isn't this too fast? Should I take you on a date first? We've already gone through the "talk about our traumatic pasts" bit, haven't we?_ And more seriously, he knows that Six is always thinking. He has a habit of narrating through his thought processes, and when he doesn't, his actions surprise anyone that can't follow through how his mind jumps through loops.

Siete thought he'd gotten decent at it over the years, but his jaw is slack as he puts his hands on Six's wrists, intending to pull them away from his face and _talk about it some more, maybe?_ But when his fingers wrap around his wrist to feel his pulse, the fire igniting against his skin burns hotter until he thinks he'll be permanently scarred by Six's hands.

That's fine, he realizes. That's more than fine. Something's melting, like a wax seal stamped against some hidden part of his heart breaking open under Six's steady gaze.

Their lips meet. Six presses him up against the wall beside the door, pressing into his space, and Siete's hands find his exposed skin of their own accord, all the places made convenient by Six's design—of course Six did this on purpose. His fingers trail down Six's wrists, pushing aside the loose sleeves of his uniform, feeling the muscles of his arms shift as he presses against Siete with more fervour. His hands drop down to Six's waist, tracing symbols against his bare skin.

Six makes a little noise, something between relief and desperation, and—

"Oh, god," Siete says into their kiss, and his knees go weak as everything rushes back to him, blowing out his senses until the only thing he can feel is Six's hands holding him in place.

* * *

When he wakes up, it's still the afternoon. Thank _god_ , he would never live it down if it turned out that he'd passed out for any longer than an hour. He'd already gotten Six's endless teasing from that time he kissed Six _once_ before going to study abroad and nearly missed his flight because he passed out.

He buries his face into the pillow and pauses.

That's another life. He remembers—it shouldn't be as much of a shock to him, but it feels like it's been so long since he's remembered past lives like this that it feels like a new sting.

No, sting is too cruel. It's like filling his lungs with fresh air, out in the wide open countryside when he's spent too long in the city. Not that their life now has anything near the same scale of city that he's seen before, with claustrophobic skyscrapers and more people than all of Phantagrade combined, but he doesn't have to explain anything to himself, because he _knows_.

As if on cue, Six walks into the room with a glass of water. His mask is on, but Siete can just tell that he's about to collapse out of relief. "Thank god," Six grumbles, as if it were a knee-jerk reaction. "You've been out for almost twenty-four hours."

"I—" Six puts the glass of water on the bedside table, and Siete downs it in one go. " _Really?_ "

Six's silence, the tilt of his head, is enough of an answer.

"Man, imagine the millionth life we live together. I'll be out for almost three years at that rate."

"Please, let's get through _this_ one together for once." Six sits on the edge of the bed, and Siete rolls until he's curled up around him like a croissant. "This was the first one where I remembered you first, and I'd rather not do that again."

"Let's get it right this time?" Siete asks. "Starting with telling the others. You should be used to it by now, right?"

Six hunches in over himself. Siete laughs as he lifts his head with a glare. "In the same way you're used to telling me what's happening to you when you get your memories back."

At Siete's embarrassed smile, his glare softens until he lays on top of Siete and groans. Siete puts a hand against his back. "Yeah, it's high time I stop worrying about how crazy I look and just tell you about everything every time we're born again, right?"

"Since when have you cared about how you come off to people?"

"That one time we were idols, maybe."

Six smacks him on the chest, but he doesn't move.

* * *

Six didn't start remembering until the second round of lives. The first suspicion he had was the first time he'd killed Siete by his own hands. He carried those bloodstained palms with him for the rest of his life, like an itch he could never scratch.

He didn't remember the same way Siete did, who had everything returned to him at the merest touch. He would remember in sensations, in vague images, until it was too late to reconcile and find him again.

But Siete always remembered first. That, both of them knew. "Every time I remembered you, in the current life and the ones before, there was something in your eyes."

"Lust?"

Six looks like he's trying very hard not to leave the room. "Why did it have to be _you_?"

Six had dreams since he was born of lives he doesn't remember, faces blurred out, remembering nothing but the warmth. It was a slow build again from when Siete first recruited him, a living, breathing legend instead of a sacrificial lamb, and when he'd been gone for that mission, he'd thought, only once, _Siete is that warmth._

"You panicked over wanting to cuddle with me?" Siete can't help but tease.

"It's different this time," Six says, ignoring him. "I'll make sure of it."

Whether this life ends up less than satisfactory for both of them again doesn't matter, because he knows this look in Six's eyes. It's the same one he had when Siete challenged him to arcade games, the same one when he was standing up on a podium and refused to back down against the reporters. It carries the same gravity as Six telling him he loved him with his dying breath as the vines overtook every last corner of their interplanetary ship and exploded into spores.

The same fire connects them as Six grabs his hand, flinching as he tries to reconcile this current life with all their current ones, but he still doesn't let go.

**0.**

Light bursts in the dark cavity of this universe, a pinprick of a spark in the beginnings of an existence past nothingness.

There's a warmth beside him, but when he rolls over in the bed, he finds an empty space. It's warm enough that Six must still be around, so he whines until he hears Six's sigh, his footsteps from across the room stopping at the edge of the bed. "You know I have a mission today," Six says in the tired voice that tells Siete he's not _that_ annoyed.

"Let me steal more of your time." Siete gropes around until he makes contact with Six, and the familiar electricity jolts up his skin again.

"Haven't you had enough lifetimes with me?"

Siete tilts his head so he can face him properly, take in the gentle smile on his face, almost mischievous.

"Of course not. I just wanna make it to the end of one with you for once. No weird breakups or like, randomly dying."

"You've picked a hell of a lifetime to attempt that," Six mutters before he leans down to kiss him on the forehead. "You're the one always dying."

"Cross my heart, I'll stay."

Six looks at him like he doubts it, but no matter how far Siete travels, it'll always be with Six by his side, a heart to beat in tandem with his own.

**Author's Note:**

> title from seventeen's [舞い落ちる花びら (fallin' flower)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u4iDL3c0T1c).
> 
> you may be asking where the werewolves are. i removed the werewolf six section. sorry for my crimes  
> thank you for bearing with the fact that this isn't usually what i usually write for siesix, but i miss them a lot and i wanted to write for june 7… just some junk food for the soul !
> 
> thanks to noelle who always just fuckin whips me into shape i couldn't do anything without you  
> and also to a friend with whom i had this conversation with like a few months or maybe decades ago i'm not really sure. you know who you are thank y


End file.
